The tunnel was filled with tension as the pyers walked out for the second half. The sound of boots ccking against the concrete floor mixed with the distant roar of the King Power Stadium, where thousands of fans waited, eager for more.

  For most of the pyers, it was just another half of football. For Tristan Hale and Robin van Persie?

  It had become deeply personal.

  Van Persie had been waiting for this moment.

  Forty-five minutes. That’s how long he had spent chasing shadows, watching a 19-year-old midfielder tear apart his team. Two goals. An assist. A goal-line clearance that had robbed him of a certain goal.

  Van Persie, a former Golden Boot winner, one of the most lethal strikers in Europe, had been outshined—by a kid.

  And that didn’t sit right with him.

  The Dutchman edged closer, walking just beside Tristan as they made their way toward the tunnel exit. His voice was low, ced with frustration.

  "Enjoy it while it sts."

  Tristan didn’t flinch. He turned his head slightly, looking at Van Persie with an expression that was calm, confident, dangerous.

  "That all you’ve got?" Tristan’s voice was steady, unreadable.

  Van Persie’s jaw tightened.

  "You think this game is over?"

  Tristan exhaled sharply through his nose, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.

  "I don’t think. I know."

  He paused just long enough to let it sink in, then added, almost as an afterthought—

  "And by the way… I have more goals than you this season. And I don’t even py striker."

  Van Persie stopped walking.

  The words hit harder than any tackle.

  Tristan could feel the frustration rolling off him, the barely contained anger, the bruised ego. The tension between them was razor-sharp, one wrong word away from exploding.

  Before it could escate further, a firm hand pressed against Tristan’s chest.

  Wes Morgan.

  The Leicester captain knew exactly where this was heading, and he wasn’t about to let his young star get dragged into something stupid.

  "That’s enough, calm down," Morgan muttered under his breath, his tone warning.

  Tristan didn’t argue, but he also didn’t back down. His stare remained locked onto Van Persie for a second longer before he finally took a step back.

  A few feet away, Wayne Rooney grabbed Van Persie by the arm.

  "Leave it. Focus."

  Rooney’s voice was level, but there was an edge to it. He had pyed alongside Cristiano Ronaldo, had seen what obsession looked like.

  Right now?

  Tristan Hale had that same look.

  He had never seen this version of Tristan before and neither had the world.

  This wasn’t just about winning. This was about humiliation.

  And right now, Tristan wasn’t just beating United—he was breaking them.

  As the pyers stepped onto the pitch, the King Power Stadium erupted, the noise deafening.

  The second half was about to begin.

  And for Manchester United?

  It was about survival.

  As the pyers stepped onto the pitch, the King Power Stadium erupted, the noise deafening.

  As the pyers stepped onto the pitch for the second half, the King Power Stadium was shaking. The Leicester fans were buzzing, singing, chanting—completely caught up in the chaos unfolding before them.

  Manchester United?

  They looked shell-shocked.

  Martin Tyler’s voice carried over the broadcast, his tone filled with disbelief.

  "Welcome back to the King Power Stadium, where Leicester City lead Manchester United 3-1 after a first half that, quite frankly, has been a nightmare for the visitors."

  The camera panned to Louis van Gaal standing on the touchline, arms crossed, face like stone. But his body nguage gave him away—he was seething.

  Tyler continued. "An, this isn’t just bad—it’s embarrassing. This is Manchester United we’re talking about, a club that prides itself on dominance. And right now, they’re getting outpyed, outrun, and frankly, outcssed by a newly promoted side."

  An Smith exhaled. "It’s shocking, Martin. Absolutely shocking."

  A highlight reel pyed on the screen:

  Tristan’s first goal—a clinical finish inside the box, showcasing his intelligence and movement.His second? An outrageous solo goal, where he dribbled past three United pyers before smashing a 35-yard rocket into the top corner.His defensive heroics—denying Van Persie a certain goal with a st-ditch block on the goal line.Vardy’s goal—an electric counter-attack, finished with a deadly one-on-one against De Gea.

  Tyler wasn’t finished.

  "And let’s talk about Tristan Hale," he continued. "Two goals, one assist, and two goal-line clearances. The 19-year-old is putting on a mastercss tonight."

  Smith shook his head. "And here’s the thing—he’s a midfielder. Yet, he’s got more goals than Van Persie this season. More goals than Falcao. More goals than some of the top strikers in this league."

  Tyler let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "And you can see it’s getting to Van Persie. He’s spent more time gring at Tristan than he has celebrating. And that exchange in the tunnel just now? That tells you everything. He knows he’s getting outshined."

  Smith agreed. "And it’s not just the goals, Martin. It’s the way Tristan carries himself. Normally, he’s calm, composed, almost too mature for his age. But tonight? He looks different. He looks angry. Like he’s on a mission."

  Tyler’s voice dropped slightly. "Maybe it’s personal. Maybe it’s just the occasion. But whatever it is—United haven’t figured out how to stop him."

  The camera zoomed in on Van Gaal, gesturing furiously at his assistants.

  "And United need to figure it out fast, An, because if they don’t, this could turn into a complete disaster."

  Smith didn’t hesitate. "Forget a comeback—if they keep pying like this, they could get embarrassed."

  Tristan Hale’s five goals and six assists in just five games weren’t just impressive.

  They were historic.

  Sky Sports pulled up a comparison graphic, showing Tristan’s stats alongside some of Europe’s biggest stars so far in the 2014-15 season (as of September):

  ? Tristan Hale – 5 Goals, 6 Assists (Premier League)? Cristiano Ronaldo – 3 Goals, 2 Assists (La Liga, Real Madrid)? Lionel Messi – 4 Goals, 4 Assists (La Liga, Barcelona)? Neymar – 3 Goals, 3 Assists (La Liga, Barcelona)? Diego Costa – 7 Goals, 1 Assist (Premier League, Chelsea)? Thomas Müller – 4 Goals, 2 Assists (Bundesliga, Bayern Munich)? Karim Benzema – 3 Goals, 1 Assist (La Liga, Real Madrid)? Robin van Persie – 1 Goal, 0 Assists (Premier League, Manchester United)

  Tyler whistled as the numbers fshed on the screen.

  "Look at that, An. Tristan Hale, at just 19 years old, is putting up numbers that rival the best pyers in the world. And we’re still in September!"

  Smith let out a chuckle. "And I’ll tell you what, Martin—he’s not done yet."

  The referee raised his whistle.

  One deep breath.

  Then—

  The second half was underway.

  And Leicester City were ready to finish what they started.

  The King Power Stadium was still shaking from the first 45 minutes, the home fans buzzing with anticipation. Leicester led 3-1, but everyone in the stadium knew this game wasn’t over.

  Manchester United—humiliated, desperate, wounded—came out swinging.

  “And we’re back underway at the King Power!” Martin Tyler’s voice boomed through television sets around the world. “Manchester United have 45 minutes to save themselves from total embarrassment.”

  An Smith shook his head. “They’re going to throw everything at Leicester now, Martin. The question is—can they actually turn this around? Or are they just going to leave themselves even more exposed?”

  Leicester didn’t sit back.

  They smelled blood.

  Di María was still the only United pyer who looked like he had any fight left in him.

  In the 51st minute, he picked up the ball just past midfield.

  One gnce up—then he took off.

  Drinkwater stepped up—too te.

  A quick shift of the hips, and Di María was past him like he wasn’t even there.

  The Argentine drove forward, Rooney peeling off to his left, Van Persie sprinting ahead into the box.

  “Here comes Di María!” Tyler’s voice climbed. “He’s got options, and Leicester are scrambling to get back!”

  Schlupp tried to block his path, but Di María didn’t even slow down—he cut inside and threaded a perfectly weighted ball into Rooney’s feet.

  Rooney took one touch, then flicked it over to Van Persie, who was already rising like a giant in the box.

  The cross was perfect.

  The header was even better.

  Van Persie’s head snapped forward, the ball flying like a missile toward the far post.

  Schmeichel dived at full stretch—

  THUNK!

  The ball smashed off the post and bounced straight back into py!

  Gasps filled the stadium.

  “OFF THE WOODWORK!” An Smith yelled. “That was nearly the lifeline United needed!”

  But it wasn’t over.

  The ball ricocheted straight to Falcao, standing just six yards from goal.

  A guaranteed tap-in.

  Except—

  Wes Morgan.

  The Leicester captain threw himself across the box like a human shield, his chest meeting the shot before Falcao could even react.

  The ball bounced away, and Leicester cleared their lines.

  The King Power erupted.

  “MORGAN, LIKE A WALL!” Tyler roared. “MANCHESTER UNITED JUST CAN’T GET A BREAK!”

  Van Gaal’s face turned red on the touchline.

  Leicester countered instantly.

  Tristan had barely stopped moving before he saw it—Mahrez breaking free on the right wing.

  Blind, United’s defensive midfielder, had made a mistake—a sloppy pass toward Herrera.

  Tristan read it instantly.

  A quick interception, then a first-time through ball splitting United’s entire midfield apart.

  “HERE COME LEICESTER!” Tyler shouted.

  Mahrez was off like a rocket, his pace sending arm bells ringing through United’s fragile backline.

  Rojo lunged—Mahrez skipped past him like he wasn’t even there.

  Bckett was next.

  Mahrez feinted left—Bckett bit hard.

  Then—GONE.

  Mahrez exploded to his right, leaving the United defender ft on his back.

  “OH, HE’S SENT HIM FOR A HOT DOG!” An Smith ughed.

  Mahrez was inside the box now.

  De Gea came off his line, desperate.

  Mahrez didn’t care.

  He rifled a shot toward the near post.

  De Gea saw it te.

  Too te.

  THE NET RIPPLED.

  4-1.

  The King Power erupted into absolute chaos.

  “GOOOOOAAAAAL!!!” Tyler’s voice cracked with excitement. “RIYAD MAHREZ SEALS IT FOR LEICESTER CITY! 4-1! THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE!”

  An Smith was ughing in disbelief. “This isn’t just a bad day for United, Martin. This is an outright humiliation.”

  Mahrez slid on his knees, fists clenched.

  Vardy grabbed him, shaking him. “You’re a magician, mate!”

  Tristan arrived st, grinning.

  “Knew you had it in you.”

  Mahrez, still breathless, just ughed. “Too easy, man. Too easy.”

  The camera cut to Louis van Gaal.

  He sat on the bench, his usual stone-faced expression betraying the turmoil boiling underneath. His arms were crossed tightly, his fingers gripping his forearm so hard his knuckles were white. His lips were pressed into a thin line, but his eyes—his eyes—were empty, hollow. He wasn’t just watching a team lose.

  He was watching Manchester United colpse.

  Wayne Rooney stood near the center circle, motionless, staring at the ground like he was searching for an escape route. His hands were glued to his hips, his fingers occasionally tightening into fists before releasing again.

  A bead of sweat dripped down his temple, but he barely noticed. His breathing was heavy, his shoulders slumped.

  This wasn’t just a bad game. This was humiliation.

  He stole a gnce at Van Persie, then Falcao, searching for someone—anyone—to step up.

  But all he saw were dead eyes and frustration.

  He turned back toward Leicester, toward Tristan, Mahrez, and Vardy.

  And he knew.

  Knew that they weren’t stopping.

  Knew that this was going to get worse.

  And the worst part?

  His own teammates had already given up.

  Martin Tyler shook his head. “This is Manchester United. And they are being torn apart by

  The King Power Stadium trembled as the second half rolled on, Leicester refusing to slow down, United one misstep away from completely falling apart.

  "Manchester United are hanging on for dear life," Martin Tyler decred over the broadcast, the tension crackling through his voice. "This isn’t just a loss anymore—this is a humiliation in the making."

  "Leicester City can feel it, Martin," An Smith added, shaking his head in disbelief. "They’re faster, they’re sharper, and most importantly, they believe. United? They’re pying like a team that just wants to go home."

  With Leicester pressing high, United tried once again to push forward. Herrera and Blind exchanged quick passes, desperately searching for an opening, but nothing was there.

  Then came the predictable mistake.

  Herrera’s pass toward Falcao was slightly off, forcing the Colombian striker to hesitate. That was all Wes Morgan needed.

  The Leicester captain bulldozed into Falcao, using his sheer strength to shoulder him off the ball with embarrassing ease. Falcao went flying, sprawling onto the grass, arms filing in frustration.

  The whistle didn’t blow.

  The referee waved py on.

  Morgan stood over him, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Come on, then," he muttered, just loud enough for Falcao to hear.

  The Colombian striker, already at his boiling point, snapped. He leapt to his feet and shoved Morgan hard.

  But Morgan didn’t even move.

  Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

  Falcao’s nostrils fred, his fists clenched, his body trembling with frustration.

  Rooney sprinted over, grabbing him by the arm, voice low but firm. "Save it."

  "He's taking the piss!" Falcao hissed.

  "Then score," Rooney snapped. "Not this."

  Before it could escate further, the referee stepped in, pointing a warning finger at both pyers before motioning for the game to continue.

  United had lost the battle in the midfield.

  Now, they were losing the mental battle, too.

  As soon as py restarted, Leicester pounced again.

  Trista, a step ahead, read United’s next mistake before it even happened.

  Herrera, still shaken from his earlier errors, hesitated on the ball for a second too long. Tristan didn’t.

  A sharp feint—he stole possession right off Herrera’s feet, spun, and flicked a quick pass out to Mahrez before the Spaniard could even react.

  "Here come Leicester again!" Tyler shouted.

  Mahrez took off down the right fnk, Rojo chasing but never catching.

  The Algerian slowed, waiting for Bckett to engage. The young defender, already embarrassed earlier in the match, stood his ground, refusing to dive in.

  Mahrez hesitated for just a moment.

  Then he let it fly.

  A powerful shot toward the near post—

  De Gea reacted.

  A world-css save. A desperate palm to deflect it wide.

  "BIG SAVE FROM DE GEA!" An Smith excimed. "That was almost Leicester’s fifth!"

  The ball ricocheted dangerously inside the box before Evans booted it into the stands, the away fans groaning in sheer agony.

  Leicester were winning the game.

  But Tristan? He was winning the mind games, too.

  And Van Persie hated it.

  The Dutch striker had been kept quiet all game. Every time he found space, Morgan was there. Every time he made a run, Schmeichel shut him down.

  And every time Tristan was near him, he made sure to remind him.

  And then came the moment it all boiled over.

  Tristan had just nutmegged Herrera, darted past Blind, and was charging through midfield like he owned the pitch.

  Van Persie saw red.

  He sprinted forward and clipped Tristan’s heel, enough to trip him but not enough for a booking.

  Tristan hit the ground, but he didn’t stay down long.

  He sprang up, turned, and smirked.

  "Still waiting for that goal, Robin?"

  Van Persie gred. "Still waiting for that hat-trick, kid?"

  Tristan chuckled. "You’re a striker. I’m a midfielder. Remind me—who has more goals?"

  Van Persie’s jaw clenched so tight it looked like he was about to break his own teeth.

  Before it escated, Morgan stepped in, gripping Tristan’s shoulder. "Save it for the scoreboard, d."

  Rooney pulled Van Persie away. "Leave it."

  But Van Persie wasn’t ughing anymore.

  He wasn’t talking anymore.

  He was seething.

  With United still pushing forward, Leicester saw another opportunity.

  Mahrez, pying like he was on a different pnet, switched the py beautifully to Vardy.

  And that was the st thing Rafael wanted to see.

  Vardy, running at full tilt, left the Brazilian in the dust.

  Rafael tried to catch up, but Vardy was too fast, too strong, too determined.

  A quick gnce up—he spotted Ulloa at the far post.

  A perfect low cross—Evans, stretching desperately, just barely got a touch to clear it out.

  "That was almost FIVE!" Tyler shouted.

  The home fans roared in frustration.

  United were hanging on by a thread.

  The tackles got nastier.

  Rooney was snapping at his teammates.

  Di María was yelling in Spanish, frustration all over his face.

  Blind shoved Mahrez after being beaten again.

  Herrera stomped toward the referee, arms filing, demanding a foul.

  It wasn’t just United losing.

  They were breaking down.

  And Leicester?

  They weren’t done yet.

  The King Power Stadium pulsed with energy, the Leicester fans chanting in full voice, their hunger for more goals matching their pyers’ relentless intensity. The scoreboard read 4-1, but it wasn’t enough. Not for the fans. Not for the pyers.

  And certainly not for Tristan.

  In the 74th minute, United’s frustration boiled over.

  Wayne Rooney, Manchester United’s captain, had seen enough. He sprinted toward the sideline to press Leicester’s Wes Morgan, arriving a half-second too te—but that didn’t stop him from shoulder-checking the towering center-back to the ground.

  The referee’s whistle didn’t come fast enough.

  Morgan was up in an instant, shoving Rooney hard in the chest.

  "Try that again," Morgan dared, his voice low, dangerous.

  "Blokes like you wouldn’t st a day at United," he spat, nostrils fring, anger radiating off him.

  Morgan? He just grinned.

  Morgan? He just grinned. Didn’t even blink.

  "Blokes like me don’t need United."

  The moment crackled with tension.

  Pyers from both teams rushed in, trying to separate them. The referee stepped in, issuing both captains a warning.

  Just minutes ter, Tristan dispossessed Herrera again, shrugging him off like he wasn’t even there before spraying a pass out wide to Mahrez.

  Van Persie had seen enough.

  Storming over, the Dutch striker stepped directly in Tristan’s path, stopping him dead in his tracks.

  "You think you’re special, don’t you?" Van Persie hissed, standing chest-to-chest with him.

  Tristan? Didn’t even blink.

  "I don’t think," he grinned, calm, collected, dangerous. "I know."

  Van Persie’s jaw clenched.

  "You’re just another kid with a lucky season," he spat. "One-hit wonder. You’ll be forgotten in a year."

  Tristan ughed. Shook his head.

  "Your level?" Tristan smirked, his voice dripping with amusement.

  Van Persie stiffened.

  The truth stung.

  Before he could fire back, Morgan and Rooney stepped in.

  "Enough," Morgan muttered, nudging Tristan away—though even he was grinning.

  Rooney wasn’t as amused. He grabbed Van Persie’s arm, yanking him back.

  "You wanna let a 19-year-old rattle you?" he snapped.

  Van Persie said nothing.

  Despite their shattered morale, Di María wasn’t done fighting.

  The Argentine picked up the ball deep in midfield, weaving past Drinkwater before skipping past Cambiasso.

  "Di María is still trying to drag United forward!" Martin Tyler called.

  Rooney peeled off to the left, demanding the ball.

  Van Persie made a run into the box, shaking off Moore.

  Di María saw him. Curled in a perfect cross.

  Van Persie rose for the header—

  Schmeichel punched it clear!

  The rebound fell to Falcao—

  His shot was BLOCKED by Morgan!

  The ball ricocheted out wide.

  And suddenly—

  Leicester were on the counter.

  Tristan, already anticipating the counter, sprinted forward, pointing for the ball.

  Mahrez picked him out instantly, threading a pass through the middle.

  Rojo, already exhausted, was the only defender left to stop him.

  Tristan charged forward, the entire stadium rising to its feet.

  Rojo lunged in—te!

  Tristan sidestepped him, Rojo colpsing to the ground in frustration.

  The fans roared in delight.

  "Rojo is having a nightmare!" An Smith ughed. "Tristan is running riot!"

  Tristan, still in full stride, gnced up.

  Vardy was making the run.

  A perfectly weighted through ball split United’s defense—

  "VARDY’S IN!" Tyler shouted.

  De Gea rushed out—

  Vardy got there first—

  He rounded the keeper—

  But before he could shoot, Evans threw himself in the way, deflecting the ball wide!

  Corner kick!

  "United are hanging on by a thread!" Tyler yelled. "They’re just trying to survive at this point!"

  Leicester took the corner short, keeping the pressure on.

  Mahrez, dancing with the ball at his feet, teased Rojo before—

  Nutmegging him again.

  The third time that night.

  Rojo lost it.

  A wild, reckless lunge—

  Mahrez went flying!

  The whistle blew immediately!

  Yellow card!

  "That was coming!" Smith chuckled. "Rojo has been terrorized all night!"

  Leicester had a free kick in a dangerous position.

  Tristan and Mahrez stood over the ball.

  Mahrez whispered something to him.

  Tristan smirked.

  The referee paced back, blowing his whistle.

  Mahrez took a short run-up, feinting as if to shoot—but he tapped it sideways to Tristan.

  Tristan took one step forward—but instead of striking, he lifted the ball with the outside of his boot, lofting a delicate chip over the wall, aiming for Ulloa at the far post.

  Evans, for once alert, scrambled to react, leaping to head it clear.

  But the clearance cked power.

  The ball dropped back down to Mahrez at the edge of the box.

  "Still alive here for Leicester!" Martin Tyler shouted.

  Mahrez, with his first touch, flicked it over Rafael, completely bamboozling the full-back.

  Rooney came flying in, a desperate lunge—Mahrez skipped past him with ease.

  "Mahrez is pying with them now!" An Smith chuckled.

  The Algerian hesitated for a second, then flicked a low pass back to Tristan, who had already stepped into space just outside the box.

  Tristan let it run past him, fooling Blind, before spinning onto his right foot—

  "TRISTAN!" Tyler shouted.

  But before he could shoot—

  Herrera crashed into him, body-checking him to the ground.

  The whistle blew instantly!

  "FREE KICK! RIGHT ON THE EDGE OF THE BOX!" An Smith excimed. "Manchester United just can’t deal with him!"

  The United pyers protested, but even Rooney didn’t argue too much. The foul was btant.

  Tristan stayed on the ground for a second, catching his breath. He felt the sting of the challenge, but also the frustration radiating off the United pyers.

  They couldn’t stop him fairly.

  So they had to resort to fouls.

  As he sat up, he saw Van Persie watching him from a few yards away, hands on his hips, eyes dark with frustration.

  Tristan grinned. "Still waiting for that goal, Robin?"

  Van Persie exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

  Morgan offered Tristan a hand. "Up you go, d."

  Tristan grabbed it, pulling himself up. "Cheers, skip."

  Rooney, standing nearby, gnced at Tristan. For the first time all game, his anger seemed to have cooled.

  "You don’t have to keep going this hard," he muttered under his breath.

  Tristan wiped his face with his shirt, catching his breath. Then, without hesitation, he looked Rooney in the eye.

  "Sorry, Rooney," he said, his voice even, but firm. "I promised someone a hat-trick."

  Rooney blinked, but before he could respond, the referee blew the whistle, urging Leicester to take the free kick.

  The Leicester pyers took their time, setting up for the free kick, knowing that every passing second only drained more life from United.

  Van Gaal was pacing the touchline, gesturing wildly at his pyers. He knew they were being suffocated, the game slipping further and further away.

  The United pyers were tense, their bodies rigid, waiting for the next attack.

  Tristan and Mahrez stood over the ball again, whispering back and forth.

  "Top corner?" Mahrez teased.

  Tristan grinned. "Too predictable."

  Mahrez smirked. "Do your thing, then."

  The referee blew the whistle.

  Tristan took three steps back.

  The stadium held its breath.

  He struck it cleanly, curling the ball over the wall, but this time De Gea was ready.

  The Spanish goalkeeper dove to his left, stretching as far as he could—

  His fingertips brushed the ball, deflecting it just over the bar!

  "DE GEA SAVES IT!" Tyler shouted. "That was heading in!"

  An Smith whistled. "You have to say, Martin, De Gea has saved United from an even bigger embarrassment tonight."

  The ball nded on top of the net, the Leicester fans groaning in frustration.

  Tristan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling.

  "Good stop," Mahrez muttered.

  Tristan nodded. "Yeah… next time."

  De Gea, meanwhile, sat up, his face bnk, as if he already knew it wouldn’t matter.

  He had made the save.

  But he couldn’t stop what was coming.

  The King Power Stadium was shaking.

  Not from an earthquake.

  Not from the wind.

  From Leicester City.

  From their pyers, their fans, their belief.

  From the death rattle of Manchester United.

  A team of United’s stature should have been fighting for pride.

  Instead?

  They were begging for the whistle.

  But ángel Di María still had fight left in him.

  The Argentine, breathless but still desperate, received the ball 25 yards out.

  Drinkwater stepped in—Di María skipped past him.

  Cambiasso lunged—Di María twisted away.

  One look. One chance.

  He let fly.

  The ball was a missile, swerving, dipping—

  Heading straight for the top corner.

  Schmeichel unched himself.

  FULL STRETCH.

  FINGERTIPS.

  The ball clipped the crossbar and bounced away.

  Gasps filled the stadium.

  "WHAT A SAVE!" Martin Tyler shouted. "Kasper Schmeichel—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

  An Smith exhaled. "That’s the best save of the match—and it might be one of the best of the season!"

  The camera cut to Di María.

  Hands on his head.

  He didn’t scream. Didn’t argue.

  He just stood there. Stunned.

  The camera panned to the away section.

  Some fans had seen enough.

  The first wave of exits had already begun at 4-1.

  But now?

  Now it was a flood.

  Scarves were pulled off.

  Hoodies zipped up.

  Fans stormed toward the exits, heads down, refusing to look at the scoreboard.

  But Leicester?

  Leicester were still hungry.

  Tristan jogged back into position after Schmeichel’s world-css save.

  He caught Jesse Lingard’s eye.

  One nod.

  Lingard understood immediately.

  This wasn’t over. It hurt his soul destroying his club but it had be done.

  Leicester regained possession.

  Mahrez, still pying like he was in a schoolyard game, picked up the ball on the right.

  Rafael—who had been torn to shreds all night—didn’t even bother pressing him anymore.

  He just stood there.

  Like a man who had accepted his fate.

  "Mahrez, teasing the United defense again," Tyler narrated.

  Mahrez ughed, flicking the ball inside toward Tristan.

  And then?

  Tristan let it run through his legs.

  A dummy.

  The entire United backline froze.

  The ball rolled perfectly into Drinkwater’s feet, and before United could react—

  Drinkwater flicked it right back to Tristan.

  Now?

  Tristan was in acres of space on the right fnk.

  "That’s brilliant football!" An Smith grinned.

  Tristan didn’t hesitate.

  One touch.

  A second touch.

  Then—

  A vicious cross.

  Bending away from De Gea, whipping straight into the danger zone.

  Lingard timed his run to perfection.

  He darted in-between Bckett and Evans.

  One touch.

  A diving header—

  THE NET RIPPLED.

  THE KING POWER ERUPTED.

  "GOOOOOAAAAL!!!" Tyler roared. "LINGARD MAKES IT FIVE! LEICESTER CITY HAVE HUMILIATED MANCHESTER UNITED!"

  Lingard sprang to his feet, arms outstretched.

  Mahrez and Vardy sprinted toward him, roaring in celebration.

  But Tristan?

  He just stood there.

  Grinning.

  Watching United colpse.

  Because now?

  Now it was too easy.

  Louis van Gaal sat motionless.

  Muttering something under his breath.

  His arms folded. His jaw tight.

  He had run out of words.

  He had run out of excuses.

  This wasn’t just a bad day.

  This was a nightmare.

  An Smith was shaking his head.

  "This is a disaster. An absolute disaster."

  The away fans were gone.

  The United pyers were ghosts.

  The King Power crowd?

  They weren’t cheering anymore.

  They were chanting.

  "SACKED IN THE MORNING! YOU’RE GETTING SACKED IN THE MORNING!"

  Loud.

  Merciless.

  Pure humiliation.

  Tyler sighed. "Martin, we are witnessing history. This might be the worst defeat Manchester United have ever suffered in the Premier League era."

  Smith agreed. "And you know what’s crazy? It could still get worse."

  Because Leicester?

  Leicester weren’t done.

  The scoreboard still read 5-1.

  But soon?

  It was going to change.

  Jamie Vardy, exhausted but still hungry, felt it in his bones.

  One more.

  He had been tormenting United’s backline all game, running them into the ground, stretching them, chasing every lost cause.

  Tristan, standing at the center of his masterpiece, received the ball from Cambiasso.

  One gnce.

  Vardy had already started his run.

  Tristan didn’t even take a touch.

  One perfectly weighted, slicing, defense-shattering through ball.

  It cut through Evans and Bckett like a surgeon’s scalpel.

  "VARDY’S IN!" Martin Tyler roared.

  The King Power Stadium held its breath.

  Vardy took one touch to control.One to push it past Evans.

  And suddenly—

  It was just him and De Gea.

  Vardy could have chipped it.

  Could have pced it.

  Could have rolled it into the bottom corner.

  But no.

  Not Jamie Vardy.

  Instead—

  He let it fly.

  A rocket.

  A thunderous, unstoppable strike from the edge of the box.

  The ball rose like a missile, an arrow fired straight into the top corner.

  BOOM!

  THE NET EXPLODED.

  DE GEA DIDN’T EVEN MOVE.

  6-1.

  he King Power was shaking.

  The Leicester fans lost their minds.

  People were hugging strangers.

  Beer flew into the air.

  Scarves were whipped around in a blur of blue.

  "JAMIE VARDY, YOU ARE SOMETHING ELSE!" An Smith ughed in disbelief.

  "THIS ISN’T JUST A BEATING," Tyler added."THIS IS A PUBLIC EXECUTION!"

  Vardy sprinted toward the corner fg.

  He slid on his knees, fists clenched, screaming into the sky.

  Tristan ran over, ughing, punching Vardy’s chest pyfully.

  "You crazy bastard!" Tristan shouted, grinning.

  Vardy smirked, breathless."You loved that, didn’t you?"

  Tristan nodded.

  The camera cut to Van Gaal.

  His hands were on his head.

  Muttering.

  Shaking his head.

  He looked like a man who had just lost all hope.

  Rio Ferdinand, covering the game as a pundit, had his head buried in his hands.

  "You can’t even call this a football match anymore," he muttered. "This is… I don’t even know what this is.This is Manchester United. This is the badge. And this? This is a disgrace."

  The United away end?

  Almost empty.

  The fans had given up.

  A line of red shirts marched toward the exits, heads down, shoulders slumped.

  The scoreboard fshed:

  LEICESTER CITY 6-1 MANCHESTER UNITED.

  The biggest humiliation in Premier League history was unfolding in front of the world.

  Despite the scoreline, Manchester United desperately tried to salvage a single goal.

  Something. Anything.

  But it was too te.

  Di María, the only United pyer who still looked like he cared, picked up the ball deep in midfield and surged forward.

  He danced past Drinkwater.Skipped over Cambiasso.Charged toward the box like a man possessed.

  "Di María, still fighting!" Tyler called.

  Rooney made a darting run, screaming for the ball.

  Di María saw it—slipped through the perfect pass.

  Rooney shed at it—

  His entire body committed to the shot.

  But just as he pulled the trigger—

  A WALL STOOD IN HIS WAY.

  WES. MORGAN.

  The Leicester captain threw himself at the strike, blocking it with his entire body.

  The ball cannonballed off his chest and rocketed back up the pitch.

  The King Power erupted.

  "WES MORGAN! THAT IS LEADERSHIP!" Smith shouted.

  Rooney colpsed to his knees, hands on his head.

  It was over.

  But Tristan wasn’t done.

  Not yet.

  Not until he got his hat-trick.

  Leicester broke one st time.

  Mahrez, still pying with his food, danced past Blind like he wasn’t even there before whipping in a looping cross into the box.

  Evans jumped for it, stretching—just getting the slightest of touches.

  But the ball—

  It popped straight into the air.

  And then—

  The world slowed down.

  Tristan’s eyes locked on the falling ball.

  This was it.

  His body moved on instinct.

  He jumped.

  Both feet left the ground.

  His entire frame twisted sideways, his eyes never leaving the ball.

  The stadium held its breath.

  A bicycle kick.

  A perfect, pure bicycle kick.

  BOOM.

  It exploded off his boot, spinning toward goal like a missile.

  De Gea dived.

  But it didn’t matter.

  The ball ripped into the top corner.

  "OH. MY. GOD!" Martin Tyler screamed.

  "TRISTAN HALE HAS JUST SCORED ONE OF THE GREATEST GOALS IN PREMIER LEAGUE HISTORY!"

  The King Power Stadium lost its mind.

  Mahrez grabbed his head, his mouth wide open in shock.

  Vardy colpsed onto the pitch ughing. The other Leciester City pyers just still stood from pure shock and awe.

  Tristan lying on the ground, breathless from the acrobatics—just grinned.

  His eyes fluttered shut for a second, soaking in the chaos.

  He did it.

  A hat-trick.

  A game for the ages.

  The referee looked at his watch.

  One st deep breath.

  Then—

  THE FINAL WHISTLE BLEW.

  Tristan sat up.

  The crowd’s noise was deafening, a roar so loud it felt like the entire city was shaking.

  He exhaled.

  Then, he stood.

  With one smooth motion—

  He peeled off his jersey.

  And lifted it.

  Held it up to the Leicester fans, presenting it like a work of art.

  Like a moment that would live forever.

  The King Power erupted again.

  Fans screamed.

  They reached for the jersey, hands stretching toward the sky.

  A sea of blue trying to grab a piece of history.

  A photographer on the sideline captured the exact second Tristan stood there, shirt raised, arms outstretched, the Leicester crest facing the crowd.

  An iconic image that would be immortalized in football history.

  "LOOK AT THAT!" Martin Tyler shouted.

  "THIS IS THE GREATEST INDIVIDUAL PERFORMANCE THE PREMIER LEAGUE HAS EVER SEEN!"

  An Smith ughed, shaking his head.

  "A hat-trick of goals. A hat-trick of assists. Six goal contributions. A two goal-line clearances, perfect defending. Against Manchester United. At 19 years old. WHAT ARE WE WITNESSING?"

  The camera cut to the United pyers.

  They weren’t angry.

  They weren’t even frustrated anymore.

  They were broken.

  The away section?

  Empty.

  The United fans had seen enough.

  They had been witnesses to a massacre.

  A 7-1 demolition.

  Leicester City had just written history.

  And Tristan cemented himself as the league’s best.

  As Manchester United’s pyers dragged themselves toward the tunnel, the contrast between the two teams couldn’t have been more apparent.

  On one side—Leicester City, victorious, euphoric, celebrating like kings.On the other—Manchester United, heads down, broken, running from history.

  Van Persie? Stormed straight down the tunnel, his expression dark, not even gncing at the pitch.Di María? Shaking his head, avoiding the cameras, muttering under his breath in Spanish.Falcao? Barely moved. He stared at the grass, hands on his hips, as if trying to process what had just happened.

  And then there was Wayne Rooney.

  Nobody did.

  United didn’t want to acknowledge what had just happened.

  Because this wasn’t just a loss.

  This was a historic embarrassment.

  This was the kind of defeat that would never be forgotten.

  It was a stain on the club’s history.

  As the United pyers filed into the tunnel, Wayne Rooney suddenly stopped.

  He turned back.

  And there was Tristan watching the United pyers leave.

  The Leicester star hesitated. Just for a second. Then he jogged over.

  Rooney sighed, rubbing the back of his head. His body ached. His pride even more.

  “You didn’t have to go that hard, kid,” he muttered.

  Tristan cracked a small smile, he felt a little guilty but what could he do about it.

  “I know,” he admitted. “I know. But…”

  Rooney raised an eyebrow. “But what?”

  "I promised someone I’d score a hat-trick tonight," Tristan responded patting Rooney on the shoulder before going to celebrating with his team.

  The King Power Stadium was a madhouse.

  The final whistle had blown, yet the noise refused to die. Fans weren’t leaving. How could they? They had just witnessed something historic. Something surreal.

  Leicester City hadn’t just beaten Manchester United.

  They had humiliated them. 7-1.

  The scoreboard glowed in the night, a brutal, unforgiving reminder of the carnage. For United, it was a wound that would fester for years. But for Leicester? For Leicester, it was legend.

  And at the heart of it all?

  Tristan Hale.

  A hat-trick.A hat-trick of assists.

  And then—just because he could—a bicycle kick to seal it all.

  The cameras swarmed him, Sky Sports shoving a mic in his face, Man of the Match trophy in his hands, he was the best pyer with a perfect rating of 10.

  His name rang through the night, over and over.

  "Tristan! Tristan! Tristan Hale!"

  The energy was electric. The world had just watched one of the greatest individual performances in Premier League history.

  And yet, as Tristan stood under the floodlights, his face half-lit by the stadium’s glow.

  Sky Sports’ Geoff Shreeves stood near the pitch, microphone in hand, shaking his head in disbelief. Behind him, the stadium was still buzzing—fans singing, pyers embracing, the energy of a legendary performance still lingering in the air.

  He let out a breathy chuckle, turning back to the man of the moment.

  “Tristan, we’ve seen a lot of incredible performances in this league. But tonight…” He gestured around at the electric atmosphere. “This might just be the best we’ve ever seen.”

  Tristan, still dripping with sweat, still catching his breath, adjusted the Man of the Match trophy in his hands. His expression was calm—not arrogant, not overly emotional—just a quiet confidence, like he knew this was always how it was supposed to go.

  “I told you,” he said simply, tilting his head slightly. “I told everyone before the match—I’m the best pyer in this league.”

  The words weren’t cocky. They were just true.

  Geoff ughed, shaking his head. “A double hat-trick of assists, a bicycle kick that’ll be repyed for years, and complete dominance in every moment—where did that come from?”

  Tristan exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. “Honestly?” He shrugged. “I had to score. I promised someone.”

  Geoff raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You promised?”

  Tristan looked directly into the camera, a knowing smile creeping onto his lips.

  “I know you’re watching.”

  A smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth. And then—

  “I kept my promise. Now I want my reward.”

  Behind him, Vardy burst out ughing, grabbing Tristan’s shoulders and shaking him. “Ohhh, mate, you are something else.”

  Mahrez cpped his hands, grinning. “Nah, I need to know—who’s watching, bro?”

  Tristan just shook his head, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

  But while his individual brilliance would dominate headlines, this wasn’t a one-man show. This was a team performance for the ages.

  Geoff turned his attention to the squad. “Tristan, we’ll talk more about you in a second, but let’s talk about this team. Because it wasn’t just you—it was everyone. How good were the boys tonight?”

  Tristan nodded, his respect for his teammates evident. “Unreal. Absolutely unreal. Look at Schmeichel—made ridiculous saves again and again. One-on-one stops, reaction saves—he kept us in it. That’s why he’s one of the best.”

  Geoff agreed. “And the backline—man I just can’t say enough about them today."

  Tristan pointed toward them, where they were still celebrating near the fans. “They don’t get enough credit. They were warriors tonight. Throwing themselves in front of everything. Winning every aerial duel. Keeping the shape. People talk about the goals, but without them, none of that happens.”

  Geoff smiled. “And the midfield?”

  Tristan ughed. “Everyone was amazing, I can’t say enough about them including myself of course.

  Geoff nodded. “And up front, Vardy, Mahrez…Lingard”

  Tristan grinned. “They make it too easy. The movement, the link-up—it’s just instinct at this point. They don’t even need to call for the ball, I already know where they’re going to be.”

  Geoff took a deep breath, still shaking his head in awe. “So, Tristan… after a night like this, after a performance like this… what would you say to your doubters and naysayers?”

  Tristan smirked. “Just watch me!

  The roar from the fans behind him said it all.

  ...........

  6630 exact word not counting this end section, I'm tired.